Thanks to angels

Originally posted to ontheroadagainagain on August 28, 2016

You may or may not believe in angels. As a child I did. Of course as an adult I knew better. But now I’m not so sure.

Today I was headed for Cape Breton Highlands National Park in Nova Scotia. If the beauty of the park compared to the Ceilidh (pronounced Kei-lee) Scenic Trailway I was on, I can hardly wait. 

Or rather, I can hardly wait if there are no more problems. This afternoon while driving I heard a tinny, rattling sound. I pulled off to see what was the matter. Oil was OK. Coolant was OK. Wait. What’s that thingy hanging down? Am I going to need road service yet again?!

Closer examination revealed that the thingy was a heat shield (thin piece of metal) that had come loose at one end. If I could reattach it I should be good to go. 

Now being in my home on wheels, I have a pretty complete assortment of tools and stuff. However my mechanical skills aren’t even up to those of a stereotypical blond so undeservedly abused in jokes. Even so I could see that all that was needed was to reattach the thingy.

The marshmallow fork

Problem. Reattach it with what. This thingy was going to get very hot. All I could find were plastic ties – the kind that would melt in the oven to say nothing of next to a hot exhaust pipe. Searching all the compartments I found some metal marshmallow sticks. Perfect.

Under GrandpaLyle’s Ark I go to twist this very stiff, but very heat resistant, wire around the thingy to hold it up. It went into place just fine, but twisting it was like bending a fork. Nearly impossible. Especially for one who’s fingers get most of their exercise at a keyboard. 

While I’m grunting away underneath the Ark I heard a gentle voice, “Looks like you’ve almost got that heat shield back in place.” Angel Jimmy had arrived from out of nowhere. I slid out to greet him and we chatted about my problem.

Jimmy offered, “Would you like me to give it a try?” 

For a moment my male pride balked, but only for a moment. “Please do,” I replied.

Exhaust pipe repaired with a marshmallow fork

Jimmy was a real man but as he twisted the fork tighter and tighter he kindly commented on how hard it was to bend. When all was done, we chatted a few minutes, I thanked him profusely, then he walked back up the hill and I went on my way.

Before starting off again, I looked at my phone. Just as I was crawling under the Ark, Marie had sent me a text, “Just checking that you are fine. You are, right?” This from more than two thousand miles away.

Are these just coincidences . . . or the work of angels? I don’t know . . . but I’m believing more every day. 

P.S. To all the Jimmys in the world, “Thank you for being angels in our lives.”

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